


Twinings

by sssibilance



Series: To Cardassia, With Love [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Anal Sex, Biting, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex, Spanking, a lot of "dear"s, a small bit of blood, alien naughty bits, generally gentle rough-ish sexings, iced tea, probably overly florid language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sssibilance/pseuds/sssibilance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though part of a series, this may be read as a stand-alone piece.</p><p>Cohabiting in close quarters during a Cardassian summer, Bashir makes iced tea in an attempt to cool off.  Then seduces Garak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twinings

**Author's Note:**

> Details of Cardassian biology are borrowed from [tinsnip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip), with many thanks. You can read her speculations on Cardassian reproductive biology [here](http://tinsnip.tumblr.com/post/67613563632/okay-so-i-just-read-your-ticks-fic-and-wow-that-was). I recommend reading it if only as a guide to Cardassian terms I use (there's like, three).
> 
> Parts of this fic are inspired by Andrew (J.) Robinson's Garak-centric novel, **A Stitch in Time**. Tolan, the shed, and references to Garak's mother and Dr. Parmak are all taken from that text. Having read the book is not necessary to understand the work here.

Garak sat at his little table: ovular and old, which served for meals, light work, and conversation; and was situated centrally in Tolan's re-purposed shed. He fiddled with the recalcitrant knitter in his hands – it was perhaps a lost cause, but feigning a genuine attempt to fix it allowed Garak to watch his housemate move about the small space out of the corner of his eye.

It was just past noon on a shared day off – that is, a day of doing work at home, rather than elsewhere. Having just shared a light lunch of what Humans considered a salad – put together with a mix of Federation-provided produce and what Cardassian vegetables were in season and available – the doctor was now pulling out his morning culinary endeavour from the small food coolbox.

“Ah.” Bashir sighed lightly as he held the cold glass pitcher in both arms and close to his chest. Condensation had immediately began to form on the surface; it was really quite warm in their poorly-cooled home. The shock of the cold pitcher in the heat served to excite some sort of ecstasy in the dear doctor, and Bashir's face wore the sort of physically awe-struck look Garak had come to associate with another activity entirely. Garak felt oddly envious of the pitcher.

“My darling,” Garak began, drawing Bashir's attention away from his refrigerated paramour, “I hope you are not planning to rashly run off with your tea and leave me here to put together the pieces of my own broken heart. I warn you; such a dalliance cannot last. That pitcher can only stay so beautiful and cool for so long in this summer heat.”

Bashir laughed, caught out and showing good humour for it. He set the pitcher in the centre of the table. “You're right of course. Fear not, Garak:” here he set his now icy-cold hand on Garak's own. “It was only physical.” He then reached for the small cupboard where their few eating utensils were stored.

Yesterday, Bashir had received a package from Earth: what Humans and other Federation species called a “care package.” When Bashir had left his commission and Deep Space 9 for Cardassia to spark a love affair begun first flightingly with volumes of letters passed between Garak and himself, he did it without much fanfare, choosing to inform those he wished after the fact. Garak was delighted to help Bashir with a “prank call” to Earth when Bashir contacted Chief O'Brien. In dribs and drabs, Bashir updated friends and colleagues to his satisfaction. Finally, after three weeks of mental composition, Bashir wrote an extensive communiqué to his mother, explaining his change in situation. Bashir let Garak read it, reasoning Garak might very well do his own snooping in any case. Bashir seemed not very concerned that his mother would worry at his choice in lover, but rather feel he acted too rashly, and in doing so, give up a career he had worked so hard for (and that his parents had pushed him so forcefully into). Parental guilting was apparently a Human skill as well as Cardassian. The response he received was filled with admonishments and worries – whether he would have the same respect and opportunities as a doctor on xenophobic Cardassia, whether he could continue his research, whether he could eat properly in a foreign land, and whether he truly cared for “this Elim,” whom she feared, despite years of friendship, would break her poor little Julian's heart. Julian had laughed at this, but Garak had appreciated the shrewdness of a mother who knew not to trust their child's new lover.

Garak gave up on following their correspondence after that, but after a two-month long exchange of letters, there seemed to be a sort of truce between Julian and Amsha Bashir, and an opening of further communication between Bashir and his father. This is what prompted the care package, which took another month and a half to arrive from Earth, owing to the priority placed on medical and relief supplies from the Federation. When it did arrive, Bashir tore into it excitedly, drawing Garak over with his enthusiasm.

In truth, there was nothing of particular value in the package. Garak had realised that the point of a “care package” was to supply a loved one with small things from home they needed or missed. Ms. Bashir had sent two tins of biscuits, a large bag of candies they agreed to share freely around on luxury-deprived Cardassia, a deck of cards, two sturdy tea cups and saucers which Ms. Bashir wrote were for “you and your man,” enough underwear to last Bashir a very long time, a can of something called “dry shampoo” that Bashir nearly wept over, a book of poetry by a man named Hopkins, a small pillow which inexplicably read “Keep Calm and Carry On,” and at the very bottom, several tins of tea labelled “Lady Grey.” Bashir was delighted with every item, even the underwear, but seemed particularly excited by the tea. “Garak!” Bashir jumped up – ah, there was charming exuberance! “We can have iced tea!” He dashed for for the cupboards, and tore through them looking for something. “Well, we need a pitcher, and perhaps we can't use much ice, but...” And Bashir was off into one of his whipping wind storms, planning to go out to the shops and acquire the proper pitcher, and see what the replicator could do about the ice.

The next morning, after their breakfast, Garak sipped his fish juice and watched Bashir prepare his precious iced tea. He knew from his time on Deep Space 9 that iced tea was just that – tea made cold with ice. The reasons why one would enjoy tea cold eluded him, but his ever-effusive doctor happily educated him as he bustled about.

“I think is was the Americans, I mean the ancient Americans, who thought of it. It's the perfect drink in hot weather – you get your tea, and the small amount of caffeine, and it's incredibly refreshing.”

Garak was sceptical. “Ah, my dear, but how how often have we all made such a terrible face when our tea has grown too cold.”

“Not 'too cold,' Garak.” Bashir was spooning the loose tea leaves into the strainer that nested in the the top opening of their old, cracked teapot. “Not cold enough.” He set a large pot of water – within their ration – on the heating element, and set the temperature. “The type of tea is very important as well. Some teas, like Tarkalean, will taste too bitter. A light tea is needed. Lady Grey is like Earl Grey, you've had that of course, but has less bergomat oil and includes orange, a citrus fruit. It's quite refreshing.” Garak was forced to take Bashir's word for it until the time to taste arrived.

As it turned out, their replicator was once more refusing commands. Bashir improvised by letting his creation cool enough to be put into the coolbox, and taking a judicious cup of their rationed water and pouring it into the icemaker in the freezebox, which had previously been sadly empty. This delayed their tasting, but ensured cold enough tea.

And so after lunch, the moment of truth arrived. Bashir threw Garak a smile guaranteed to win his way and, handing him the glasses, asked, “would you do the honours and pour, love?” Sneaky Bashir, with his sneaky endearments. Garak did as he was bid.

Bashir _plopped_ a carefully-judged two ice cubes each into their glasses.  “Often one adds sugar or lemon to the tea, but it's just as pleasant without,” Bashir explained.

“And just as well, as we have neither.”

“Indeed.” Bashir raised his glass in toast. “Cheers.”

The tea _was_ delightfully cool, and the taste wasn't nearly as bitter as Garak had feared. It had a lightness other Human teas he had tasted did not. Chilled, it could be drunk in large sips, no doubt cooling and hydrating an overheating Human quickly.

Bashir _ahhed_ a little extravagantly, a small smile quirking his mouth. The tea must have tasted absolutely delightful to his non-Cardassian mate, who was suffering through the heat admirably. It was indeed a lovely comfort on a hot day.

“Well, my dear.” Garak sipped, tasting for the citrus. “You must thank your mother for sending us this Lady Grey's blend.”

Bashir was rather engaged with taking large gulps of his drink, and alternately holding the cool glass to his cheek. “I'd write a note to everyone involved in crafting this blend if they weren't so long dead. And to whomever thought to put ice in their tea first.” He took another long drink, his throat working enticingly. “I will, of course, write to Mum – with thanks from the both of us.”

Garak wasn't yet convinced Ms. Bashir didn't hold a grudge against the Cardassian who had swept her “Jules” out of his cushy Starfleet career and life of modern conveniences, but he offered a simple and non-contrary “hmmm” in response.

Garak looked around their little space. First, it had been only Garak's – adjusted for his needs after he had returned to Cardassia. Adding a window had been a must; even with the door open, the little space could be very claustrophobic. Its location was ideal for his purpose: working to rebuild his home world, and undergoing a massive rock-piling project in honour of his mother on the grounds of his father's home. Or: Tain's home, who was more precisely his biological, but utterly unnamed father. This retrofitted shed had belonged to Tolan, his truer father, and sat in the back of the property. It had one small window, a door, and was but one room. The back portion of the room had a tailored (of course) curtain that one could draw past the bed, the small bathing tub, and the chest of clothes for when privacy was desired. It was not many paces across both ways, all in all, and the kitchenette, sitting, and work space were all one. The privy was several steps outside.

There was a time in his and Dr. Julian Bashir's acquaintance when Garak would not have been able to believe or be convinced his lunchtime companion could abide such circumstances. Raised in a culture of plenty, young, pampered, and naïve, the doctor seemed petal-soft and liable to whither. Garak could not have imagined his friend could live in small, wanting quarters on a war-torn planet, one of only a few aliens. Surely he would groan loudly at the rationing, bemoan the supply shortages, shudder at the the indoor-outdoor privy. But this Julian Bashir was just a little older, a little wiser and worn down, and, Garak flattered himself, a little in love. This Julian Bashir grumbled good-naturedly when the only bath he could take was with saniwipes, and trekked to the privy in the middle of the night without complaint. This Bashir sweated and overheated in an alien climate, but feared that when he complained of discomfort he'd offend  _ Garak  _ and make Garak stand badly in front of his friends and colleagues. This Julian Bashir didn't call his work as a State-employed doctor treating the displaced “frontier medicine,” but rather “good work,” and that made all the difference.

Gracious. Garak knew he was beyond smitten. His chest and shoulder ridges flamed, and he took a sip of the cooling tea to ground himself. When he came back down from his daydreaming, Bashir was looking at him over the rim of his glass with far-too knowing smile.  _Oh dear, he's got me._

“More tea, Garak?” To his surprise, Garak realised he had nearly finished his drink. It was impressively good. Garak nodded simply and let Bashir carry on with his charmingly arrogant little smirk.

When Bashir rose to refill both their glasses, he didn't return to his own mismatched chair, but crossed the short distance to Garak, forcing Garak to push back a little from the table to accommodate him as he wormed his way into his lap, and wound his arms around Garak's neck – gently, but possessively. “Why, hello there,” Garak chuckled.

“Hello, my friend.” Bashir was positively on fire, the poor thing. Always burning like a flame, as the summer had progressed, so had Bashir's suffering in the heat. With the window and door open, they had a cross-breeze that helped with the passive cooling system, but Bashir's face had been flushed all day, and his clothing, made by Garak himself to be as light and accommodating as possible, stuck to Bashir's damp skin in places. There was a sheen of perspiration on his neck and forehead, but the iced tea had seemed to revive him a little.

“Are you uncomfortable, dear? You feel as if you might begin fusion.”

Bashir wriggled in a very suspicious manner. “Well, to he honest, Garak, I am quite...hot.” Bashir's breath smelled vaguely of what he supposed was orange peel. Garak pondered that statement for a moment as Bashir shifted to straddle Garak, employing a wicked smile. Ah. Yes. If a human stated they were hot, under most circumstances, they meant in body temperature. But one should be careful in a diplomatic or mixed settings when using that terminology, as it had other implications in many Federation languages.

“Ah. My darling, perhaps you ought to drink some more of your fine tea. I must say, I have found it surprisingly refreshing and as enjoyable as many a Cardassian beverage.”

Despite how clearly sweat-drenched he was, Bashir persisted. “Oh, my...cupcake -,” Bashir found it highly amusing to coin new and inexplicable pet names and endearments for Garak, as if simply “dear” or “darling” could possibly not suffice. He did it to be purposefully grating, that was most certain. “It is not my body temperature I am concerned about.” Here Bashir pulled himself impossibly closer, resting his cheek on Garak's shoulder so his skin tickled Garak's scales and his breath swept Garak's neck. “It's a rather delicate problem, dear, and I believe you're the man for the job.”

“Oh, indeed? Are you not the doctor, _dear_?”

Bashir sighed in a mockery of sadness. “It's not a doctor I need.” Bashir darted his head forward to lick at Garak's neck, then pressing his lips to the scales there. “Elim,” he said, his voice a contrived whisper. “The fever has come over me.”

Garak kept his face a study of stillness, a “poker face.” “A fever you say? Then you do need a doctor. Perhaps I should call Dr. Parmak.”

Bashir let out an odd giggle, a charmingly juvenile sound, and a clear affectation, in between snatched little sucking nips on Garak's neck. “Oh, Garak.” Garak remained still. “Elim. Hey. Elim Garak.”

“That is my name, yes.” Garak felt a huff of amused laughter on his neck that sent a thrill down his ridges.

Bashir turned his face up with the most contrived look of innocence. “Garak. I am seducing you, make quick.” Suddenly, there was movement, and Bashir made a firm grab for Garak's nether regions, causing Garak to jerk in surprise, before finally losing his bluff to a sharp laugh.

“Oh, Dr. Bashir! If only you had been more forthright, more honest sooner. We could be in bed already.”

“Truthfully, Garak, I am forever in fear that you'll find me an insatiable sex-crazed beast.”

“No worries, my dear. I already do.” Bashir was certainly rather insatiable – but his appetite was infectious. “Hold on, now.”

Garak had to admit to himself that he was well into middle age now, and not as strong as during his days of “intrigue” with the Obsidian Order. But his work here on Cardassia kept with him a strength his middle-age spread belied, and Bashir was a slender and easy load. With Bashir's arms and legs wrapped around him, he stood carefully, muffling a grunt, and carried his wriggling and humming load to the bed where he unceremoniously deposited him.

“Oi!” Bashir laughed, but kicked off his house sandals, letting them bounce off the floor. “Shut the door, Garak.”

“Wouldn't you prefer the cross-breeze? I worry so.”

“I'd prefer Dr. Parmak or a neighbour not stop by and walk into the our little house of sin.”

Garak shut the door, but couldn't resist another tease. “What about the window? Shall I close us off entirely? We can suffocate here together.”

“I don't mind a little exhibitionism, Garak. The kind that asks callers to please come back later, though. Not the _hello, here's the Human doctor being tupped by Garak, good form, but odd prUt!_ ”

When Garak returned to the bed, Bashir had taken off his trousers and undergarments and was kneeling, working his top over his head. Garak had trained him well: the articles of clothing were placed on the small stool at the foot of the bed. Bashir's prUt was halfway to hardness, and unabashed in his nakedness, he stroked himself and fixed Garak with a heavy-lidded stare. Garak took a moment to appreciate this display, and the anatomy he once found rather unattractive and incomprehensible. “I see you've started without me. How rude.”

Bashir laughed. “Come here, and I'll catch you up.”

Garak slipped his own sandals off, followed by his trousers, before joining Bashir on the bed. Once in range, Bashir made quick work of Garak's tunic, kissing down his chest and nipping at scales as he did so. With Bashir distracted, it was easy to push him over onto the mattress and hover over him. Bashir surrendered easily, wrapping his arms around Garak's shoulders and reaching into a kiss.

There was just the hint of the tea they had been drinking now, and so instead Garak relished the taste of Bashir himself. Bashir seemed intent on nipping and sucking on Garak's lips, but with a sharp bite, Garak won his way into Bashir's mouth. As if this were a great concession worthy of reward, Garak brought his hand, nails light, over Bashir's damp shoulder, chest, and then delighted at the jerk pinching a nipple produced. He should have found the amount of sweat a Human could produce off-putting, but even Bashir's bodily fluids were delightful. He mapped slick skin and devoured the groans this produced. Garak shuddered as Bashir needfully pushed his hips up to meet Garak's, his Human prUt pushing against Garak's ajan, which was beginning to feel quite hot itself. Eyes closed, and still moaning softly, Bashir brought his hand down to Garak's groin, his fingers playing an unheard composition along the outer edges of Garak's slit. Their joinings demonstrated the time and practise the two had put into comparative xenobiology studies. “Elim,” Bashir said lowly, his voice hitching. His fingers were now slickly teasing the entrance to Garak's ajan, forcing minute thrusts and an intense tingling. “Let me touch you now.”

Bashir's warm hand and ministrations were too enticing, and Garak obliged, everting neatly, bumping in to Bashir's hand. Garak allowed himself a heavy sigh of sighs as Bashir curled a possessive palm around Garak's prUt.

It was an awkward position. Bashir played pleasure keep-away, playing first with the tip of Garak's prUt only to tease him with the briefest of satisfactions: a stroke about the base and his irllun, which produced some embarrassing moans. Bashir's own hand and arm thwarted his own pleasure, as he was forced to sort of roll his hips against his forearm as he administered his clever brand of sexual torture.

“Ah. _Julian._ ” Despite his efforts, there was a definite gasp in his voice. Bashir was master of his defences now.

“Yes, Garak.” Julian had stilled his hand, holding onto Garak's prUt as if for safekeeping. It was terribly distracting.

“Did you have any thoughts as to how you would like to, ah, proceed? Or were you thinking of rutting awkwardly and ineffectually toward completion?”

Bashir stretched beneath him, showing his neck and the fine muscles and tendons just below the delicate surface. It was a calculated move – Bashir, for all his inexperience in actual subterfuge, was most manipulative and underhanded in bed. “Actually. I do.” Yes, there was the mischief grin. “I'd like you to fuck me. Roll over.” Bashir gave Garak's thigh a little pat and grinned winningly, wiggling until Garak obliged. Their bed was narrow, but with practised manoeuvring, Garak turned onto his back, and watched with interest as Bashir climbed on top of him, straddling Garak's hips.

Garak had discovered quickly Bashir delighted in his own nudity. Poised above Garak, he preened under his gaze. He ran a hand through his damp and slightly wild hair, and then made a show of drawing his hand down his chest and to his still very interested prUt, now fully hard. Garak, too, was interested, but particularly more so in beginning the second act, as it were. “You seem rather self-absorbed at the moment, Doctor.”

“Oh, dear me.” Bashir stilled his hand, and instead reached down for Garak's own prUt. “Hello, Garak's cock, old friend.” Garak chuckled at that – that Bashir's loquaciousness extended to bed, and the hilarious words Humans used for their genitalia. Now Bashir put a more earnest effort into stroking Garak's prUt, circling the base with the pads on his thumb and index finger, giving firm and enticing strokes around his irllun, and adding an upward stroke no doubt designed to collect some of the slickness off the tapered shaft. Garak allowed himself to lean back on their new pillow and admire the look of aroused and intent concentration on Bashir's face, offering the occasional appreciative noise.

Apparently satisfied, Bashir halted his ministrations, and leaned forward once again, this time on one arm, giving himself better access to his own rear. Garak watched Bashir's arm move as he prepared himself, and delighted in the openly pleasured expression on his face. After a time, it was too much to just idly lay back and watch. Very businesslike, Garak put his index finger in his mouth and worked it to slickness, perhaps with exaggerated art, then shifted forward and used his own finger to greet two of Bashir's as they pushed into his entrance and worked it open.

“Garak, _yes_.” Bashir shifted back jerkily on both their fingers, grunting lowly. Their fingers mingled in an oddly intimate dance punctuated by the shifting of Bashir's hips and quiet noises.

Finally: “Ah – ah, okay, okay, yes,” Bashir murmured, pulling his own fingers out, and taking Garak's with him. Bashir shifted forward again, leaning in close to Garak's face, his own face a mask of intensity. Bashir's pupils were dilated, a sure sign of arousal in Humans. It gave his eyes a glittering, drugged appearance. “Kiss me,” Bashir demanded, and Garak complied, laughing into Bashir's mouth. When Bashir pulled away, his lips were spit-slick and reddened, and his lower lip showed an obvious bite mark. Garak hissed lowly at the sight and Bashir reached back for Garak's prUt one last time, now directing it as he hovered. Garak placed his hands on Bashir's narrow hips, steadying him as he slid down. Together, they let out a heavy sigh as they joined; two carefully measured pieces, stitched neatly.

Garak was in continued awe of Bashir's tightness, of the way such a small opening could stretch to accommodate the wide base of his prUt. This tightness was mind-addling as it gripped his prUt, stimulating him where his body most desired it, holding on tightly around his irllun. At once, Garak remembered to breathe, and listened to his partner's own heavy breaths to gauge his state. Bashir absently stroked Garak's lower belly, fingertips over soft scale, as he let his body adjust. Then with a grunt he was rising up just slightly on his knees and shifting his hips, sending molten heat from Garak's prUt, to ajan, to gut. He was seared. Bashir sighed heavily with his movements – slightly up, a shift around, and down again – and his hand stayed on Garak's belly, now petting and scratching with increasing insistence. Garak braced his feet on the bed and met Bashir's little thrusts and intoxicating hip rolls, his hands still steady on Bashir's hips.

Garak had wondered, when they hard first started up this odd little romance, what sort of lovers they would make. It was a pleasant surprise, upon their first effort made in this very bed, that they were, apart from the first few biologically-induced fumblings, well-suited. Garak had a natural inclination to dominate with little shows of force, and Bashir a propensity for domination through submission; they accommodated each other by engaging in wranglings Bashir designed and delighted in losing, Bashir's endless charming manipulations, and sharing a pleasure in little acts of gentle roughness.

Garak reached one of his hands for Bashir's neglected prUt, which was leaking fluid and looking rather lonely, but was stopped by a slapping hand.

“Not yet,” Bashir panted, “it's too good.” Hmmm. Instead, Garak grabbed for Bashir's upper arms and pulled him down over Garak's body so that they were chest to chest, and Julian's member rubbed against Garak's stomach with every movement, smearing fluid.

“You sneak!” Now in better range range, Bashir bit at Garak's shoulder, hard, and increased the rate of his movements.

“Julian, you wicked thing.” Garak wrapped his arms around Bashir's back, and dragged his nails down his sweaty spine, pleased with the groan he earned. Bashir in return found a new spot to latch onto with teeth and tongue, and Garak paused to enjoy the shudder of pain.

In this position, Garak was able to take a firm hold of each of Bashir's buttocks with his hands and, with a rocking motion in his lower body, take control of the pace, and keep the thrusts short enough to please his own anatomy. This had the added benefit of driving on Bashir's wicked frenzy. As Bashir worked scale between teeth, and scratched at Garak's tolv with fine nails, Garak felt his mind fizzle and innards clench at the twinned stimulation.

Now in a state where he was mainly reduced to producing litres of sweat and uttering a series of muffled “ah, ah, Elim!”s, and with Garak himself feeling as if his entire nether regions may soon explode, Garak took it upon himself to speed the process along.

In fair warning, Garak gently rubbed the buttock he planned to attack, and at Bashir's demanding “Garak!” he delivered a swift and resounding smack that made Bashir jerk and clench sharply on Garak's prUt, perfectly gripping and stroking his irllun as Bashir bounced sharply from Garak's movements. Ah  _yes_ , not long now. The second smack produced a gasping and beautiful “fuck!” from Bashir's mouth, and made Garak clench his teeth, his prUt twitching. The third smack made Bashir actually bite through scale – ripping tissue as he roared. Taken with the joining of pain and pleasure, Garak's head hit the pillow as he gloried in his release around his lover's clenching ass. 

Bashir had stilled his movements, and in his pleasant post-orgasmic fog, Garak felt him lapping at the blood he had drawn and muttering something expletive-laced. Bashir sighed lowly, bereft, as Garak's spent prUt, job done and seeking respite, receded back into its safe home.

“Garak, I've drawn blood,” Bashir said unnecessarily. This didn't seem to stop him from sucking and nipping around the area whilst seeking his own pleasure in ruts against Garak's stomach.

“Yes, you seem quite accomplished at that. Well done, my love. What do they call you on your world? A vampire?”

Before Bashir could answer that, Garak wrapped his sanguine bed partner in both arms, one leg hitched around Bashir's. With this leverage, he flipped them both over, and raised up on his hands to take survey. Bashir smiled widely, pleased with the attention he felt sure to receive. Heavens. His dear doctor had blood on his lips, and a little smeared on his teeth, stuck in the spaces between incisors. Garak's heart fluttered.

“Are you going to ravish me now, Garak?” Bashir stroked at Garak's chest and belly gently, as if he had not just been attacking him with his surprisingly well-adapted dentition.

“I suppose that very much depends on your definition of ravishment, my dear.”

Bashir shifted and sighed, having played long enough. He tipped his hips up slightly, bringing his neglected prUt to Garak's attention. As if he'd forgotten about it, bold appendage that it was. “Does this definition include cock sucking? Because I'd like some of that, very much, Garak.” Garak chuckled again at the Human word, and Bashir looked affronted.

“Cock!” Bashir seemed delighted to indulge adolescent Julian by yelling that out, naked in bed, half-fucked and completely tousled. Garak tsked. Bashir tried again. “All right, then. Elim -,” Bashir drew out the second syllable like the pitch might alter brainwaves. “Darling, would you please suck my prUt?”

Garak supposed he really had nothing more to argue, but couldn't help noting, as he gently grasped Bashir's flagging...shaft: “You really are quite pushy and manipulative. It's very attractive, and I regret ever thinking you were naïve and at all straightforward and banal.

Bashir laughed. “You say the sweetest things.” Then his laugh hitched into a moan, for Garak had shifted carefully down and made an opening lick at the head of Bashir's prUt, where a great deal of fluid had built up and passed to Bashir's lower belly rather messily. Bashir had told him Humans found the taste rather bitter and an acquired taste, but to his Cardassian palate, it was strong, but not unpleasant. He lapped at the head as if making sure it was entirely clean.

“I'm on to you, you know,” Garak noted conversationally, his mouth close enough to Bashir's prUt to tickle and elicit another little laughing moan.

“Oh?” Bashir slipped a hand into Garak's hair, giving a persistent little push on his head that Garak ignored.

“Certainly.” Garak gave another thorough lick, before affecting his best Federation-English accent. “ _Oh Garak, don't touch me yet.”_ Bashir stared, surprised and amused. “When you want this particular treatment -,”

“Cock sucking?” Garak pinched his thigh, with nail. “Uh! PrUt licking? Goodness, ow.”

“-yes, very good, dear. Well, you use that spectacular mind of yours to stay to the last, and then innocently demand fellatio. You haven't changed you're methods once, a very bad habit.”

“Oh, no.” Bashir gave a little push with his hand again, clearly feeling no remorse at being found out.

“I'm very disappointed indeed. All those years, I was having lunch with a fine sneak and double-dealer, and he could have been poorly tricking me into oral pleasure and other sinfully good things.” Here, finally, he acquiesced to Bashir's hand and sealed his lips around the head of Bashir's prUt. Above him, Bashir sighed in relief. With his tongue, Garak licked around the base, and pulled off to tongue at the foreskin, a fascinating piece of anatomy. His mouth satisfactorily slicked, Garak slid down the shaft, lips stretched around tightly. He hummed, a trick he had learned from Bashir himself and delighted in the grunt from above. Bashir's fingers tightened in his hair – he could really be rather rough. It was quite lovely.

Human “cocks”were needlessly long, and it had taken practise to determine just _what_ to do with all that length at one time. Garak grasped the base of the shaft as he worked a steady rhythm down steadily, and up a bit more quickly, lightly stroking what he could not reach with his mouth. He had not yet ever attempted to take Bashir into his throat – _that_ seemed rather like choking, and if it were to happen it would be mastered in some other manner before he ever attempted it on this man. He did, however, let the head of Bashir's prUt hit the back of his throat without breach, and swallow, earning a gasp and a jerking of the hips from Bashir.

“Garak,” Bashir warned, and Garak knew Bashir was likely at the end. Careful to protect his throat, Garak used his free hand to steady Bashir's hips. His other hand went questing, teasing over and under Bashir's sac, and seeking out where his prUt had just been. Bashir was leaking a little ejaculate from his just-used opening, and Garak smiled around Bashir's shaft as he pressed at Bashir's entrance. His finger slipped in easily, and practice told him where he'd find that little gland that drove this Human mad. He pressed the pad of his finger insistently, and was rewarded with hitching moans from above. Keeping up with the steady pressing and rolling of his finger, pushed hard down on Bashir's hip and quickened the movement of his mouth, sucking as hard as he was able on the wet shaft.

“Oh!” was all Bashir was able to get out before a wordless exclamation cut him off. Garak revelled in the rather pitchy shout, flood of liquid, and pulling of hair that came with Bashir's release. He swallowed what he was able, but a dribble of saliva and ejaculate made its way down his chin. He went about licking it away, pondering the taste.

Bashir was breathing heavily and smiling faintly, flushed and lovely. “Come up here and kiss me.” Garak obliged him. They kissed breathily for an interminable time, before Bashir pulled away to rest his head against the uninjured side of Garak's chest and shoulder. Garak studied Bashir in mostly-artificial light of their little home. He was still flushed and breathing hard, his hair hopelessly wet with sweat now.

“Where are you going?” Garak had crawled over him and started naked back toward the table.

“You must be absolutely parched. You just lost a great deal of fluid.” Bashir snorted. Garak carefully washed his hands, then finding Bashir's glass of tea had warmed a bit, added two ice cubes.

“Bring my kit, and I'll take a look at that bite.”

Garak examined the mark. It had stopped bleeding, and was really a rather lovely memento. “I think I'll keep it, if it's all the same to you, Doctor.”

Bashir looked a little pleased with himself, and a little embarrassed. “Bring it anyway, and at least let me clean it.”

“Ah yes. Who knows what diseases you might be carrying.”

Bashir chose to take several large gulps of his tea rather than respond. Together, they opened a pack of saniwipes and cleaned up – Bashir spending a large amount of time attending to his face, and neck and chest as well, as if the sweat could be banished long-term. They threw the wipes in the bin for recycling, and sat back in the bed, not quite touching, but enjoying shared space. Although it was a day off, there was still plenty to do, and soon they would have to rise and return to the little tasks of the day. Now though, Garak found it nice to sit and listen to Bashir's slow breathing.

He looked around their little home. It was was cramped, and far too hot for his poor mate, and rather inefficient, but in it they had grown a love that now seemed bigger than this space. Ms. Bashir didn't need to fear – Garak had no plans to wreck this small peace. His main task in life now, as important as rebuilding Cardassia, was caring for this odd little love.

After awhile, Garak spoke up. “You know, Doctor, I've been thinking.”

“Hmmm?” Bashir was still sipping from his drink, and slowly his face and chest were losing their red flush.

“Don't you feel that we have perhaps...outgrown this space?”

“What?” Bashir looked around as if a one-room shed with an outdoor privy was decidedly spacious and grand, bless him.

“Now that we have proven we can cohabitate, and now that we are a two-income unit, as it were, I thought perhaps you might like to...grow. There are many flats and apartment buildings now restored or rebuilt. I'm sure we could find something we both find pleasing. Perhaps with better environmental controls. And a toilet closer by.”

Bashir was positively beaming. _Garak, there's no more fooling him_. “Garak, you are so sweet. And so unsubtle.” He smiled brilliantly. “Yes, yes, I would love to.”

“My dear, I simply thought -.”

“Yes, and your alleged pragmatism is charming. I love you too.”

“I simply meant -” Garak paused. If there was anyone he wished to see straight through him, he supposed it ought to be this one. “Yes, well, that's very foolish of you, Doctor.”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to iced tea, without which this would not be possible. Because I drink a great deal of it.
> 
> Lady Grey tea was first blended by Twinings in the 1990s. The title is a pun. I'm sorry.
> 
> Dry shampoo is a miracle of science, and so I have determined they would have it in the 24th century.
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr as [sssibilance](http://sssibilance.tumblr.com/), ranting about things.


End file.
